


The Opera Ghost

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Now,” Joly calls, demanding the attention of the guests, “some of you may recall the strange affair of The Opera Ghost, a mystery fully explained-”</p><p>Before Joly even finished his summarized explanation, Courfeyrac has already gone – into the deep realms of his memories. </p><p>“We’re told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster—”</p><p>Courfeyrac closes his eyes lightly at Joly’s voice – and flashes of light, bright colors, elaborately painted sets, and that voice – his voice – comes to his mind.</p><p>[...]</p><p>Courfeyrac looks at the chandelier in all of its restored glory. It looked as good as that day, that not so distant day…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Characters:  
> Christine Daae - Jehan Prouvaire  
> The Phantom - Montparnasse  
> Raoul de Chagny - Courfeyrac  
> Carlotta - Madame Thenardier  
> Lefevre - Javert  
> Firmin - Grantaire  
> Andre - Enjolras  
> Madame Giry - Eponine, Azelma  
> Meg Giry - Cosette, Azelma  
> Joseph Buquet - Bahorel  
> Ubaldo Piangi - Monsieur Thenardier  
> Auctioneer - Joly  
> Porter - Bossuet  
> Conductor - Feuilly  
> Reyer - Combeferre
> 
> Author’s Notes: I tried to combine the book and the musical into one for this fic, so please forgive this attempt if it doesn’t fit your expectations, especially that of the prompter. I really tried.  
> I also had to rewrite Madame Giry, but she is still the Phantom’s messenger to the Opera’s denizens.

He breathes in the worn-out smell of dusty red drapes and decaying wood for the nth time when, “sold!" the auctioneer declares, slamming the gavel onto its accompanying rostrum. "Your number, sir?" the auctioneer, whose nametag reads 'Joly', inquires to the man in the dark grey overcoat.

The man in question raises his number paddle with a smile, proudly showing the number '72'.

Joly, visibly taking note of the number returns the smile. "Thank you," he says, as the porter who bears the nametag 'Bossuet' hands him the sold item, put in a box and tied with twine. The man receives it graciously and places it on the satin-covered table before him. He leans back on his chair before Joly returns his attention to the guests of the auction.

 

It’s been years since the last time he has entered this theatre. Its grandeur, its elegance, its complexity, although unkempt, still looked the same. That chair was over there, there was a stage marker over there, and the ceiling was a bit tattered after that--

 

His thoughts were interrupted when, “alright," Joly declares aloud, "Lot six-six-three, then, ladies and gentlemen: a promotional poster for this theatre's past production of Hannibal by Chalumeau." Bossuet appears from the back holding in front of him a carton roll which he releases to expand into a four-foot glossy picture of a tall, ginger man with a large build. "Showing here!" he calls. The audience turns their attention to him.

The man in the picture is standing in front of an orange backdrop donned in various colorful and patterned cloths, beads of wooden jewelry, worn gladiator sandals, the stereotypical Viking headgear, a disappointed facial expression and a stern posture demanding respect.

Joly looks around the hall, "any takers?" he asks to the audience at large. There was no response.

"How about ten francs? Do I have ten francs?" he turns his head from left to right; still no response. "How about five? Five, then."

A woman in the seventh row from where Joly is stood raises her paddle. Joly points at her with an open palm, "five, I am bid. Six?"

A man two seats behind the woman interrupts him with the raising of his paddle.

"Seven," a man sitting in the eighth row announced, raising his own paddle at the same time.

 

A greying woman in grey who stands beside an even greyer man then slowly raises her paddle at the same time Joly calls for an "eight?"

"Against you, sir?" Joly inquires to the former. He nods. "I have an eight; eight once."

Respectful silence blankets the auditorium.

"Selling twice," Joly calls.

Still silence.

Joly takes his gavel and crashes it against its rostum, "sold to Monsignor Gilliard de Courfeyrac and Baroness Cosette Pontmercy," he declares, pointing to the greying woman and the even greyer man.

 

“Now, lot six-six-four: a wooden pistol and three human skulls from the eighteen-thirty-one production of Robert le Diable by Meyerbeer; ten francs for this?” Bossuet walks past, raising the pistol in one hand and the three human skulls in the other as Joly describes them.

“Ten?” Joly looks around the room. One woman raises her paddle. “Ten, thank you.” he acknowledges the woman, then he looks around again, “ten still?”

 

A man two rows in front of the former woman raises his paddle, “fifteen!” he shouts. Joly points at him, “Fifteen, thank you, sir,” he scans the room again, “fifteen, I am bid; going at fifteen.”

 

Silence again, no one calls out a counter-bid. Joly considers this compliance and turns to the man, “your number, sir?” The man raises his paddle lowly, but high enough for Joly to see the numbers. “Thank you.”

 

Bossuet turns around and disappears with the items in hand as Joly starts again with the next item.

 

“Lot six-six-five, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a barrel-organ—” another porter comes out bearing the musical box, “—attached is the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals.”

 

The porter holding it shouted with a strangled voice, “showing here!” and winds the box and opens it, and a familiar tune in what sounded to be the minor key mesmerizes the room.

 

All too soon, the music stops, and Joly breaks the trance the guests were in, “may I commence at fifteen francs?” he looks around the room.

 

A man with a beard raises his paddle to bid. Joly acknowledges him, “fifteen, thank you,” but another man shouts over Joly, “twenty!”

“Twenty from you, sir, thank you very much.”

 

A woman sitting beside Cosette, a woman of raven hair and dark eyes, raises her paddle, “twenty-five,” she says, tone clipped.

“Lady Thenardier – twenty-five, thank you Madam. Twenty-five, I am bid. Do I hear thirty?”

 

Courfeyrac slowly raises his paddle.

 

“Thirty!” Joly points at him, “Thirty-five?”

 

No one moves.

 

“Selling at thirty francs, then; thirty once, thirty twice…” and he pounds on the rostrum with his gavel again, declaring the item, “sold!”

 

The porter moves carefully to the new owner, Joly saying to the room at large, “For thirty francs to Monsignor Gilliard de Courfeyrac. Thank you, sir.”

 

The porter turns around to leave with the item when Monsignor de Courfeyrac calls out in a raspy voice, “boy!”

The boy turns around rather terrified, and Monsignor de Courfeyrac lifts his finger to summon him.

The boy promptly and briskly walks towards him, hands clamped down the box tightly and displays the music box down low to Courfeyrac’s line of vision. The next few words that Courfeyrac utters seem to have alarmed the porter.

 

“A collector’s piece indeed: every detail, exactly as she said… Will you still play when all of us are dead?”

 

The porter suppresses a gasp, and Cosette places her hand lightly on Courfeyrac’s wrist as Eponine looks on with concern on her face. Marius looks at the porter calmly and thanks him, and the porter takes it as his dismissal. The porter turns around and walks away, but this time, stiffly.

 

Meanwhile, Joly does not notice this and goes on with the event. “Lot six-six-six then; a broken chandelier,” at the same time, above them a grandiose chandelier reveals itself from the brown drapes they have used to cover it. Everyone looks up to see the gigantic golden array of lights.

“Now,” Joly calls, demanding the attention of the guests, “some of you may recall the strange affair of _The Opera Ghost_ , a mystery fully explained-”

 

Before Joly even finished his summarized explanation, Courfeyrac has already gone – into the deep realms of his memories.

 

“We’re told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster—”

 

Courfeyrac closes his eyes lightly at Joly’s voice – and flashes of light, bright colors, elaborately painted sets, and that voice – his voice – comes to his mind.

 

“Our workshops have repaired it and wired parts of it for the new electric light—” Courfeyrac opens his eyes “—perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination.” Joly smirks in amusement at his jib, and some of the audience chuckle politely.

 

“Gentlemen!” Joly bellows and the chandelier lights turn on. With their glass and orange light, they glimmer one by one in their position. Courfeyrac looks at the chandelier in all of its restored glory. It looked as good as that day, that not so distant day…


	2. Think of Me

“ _Hear the drums – Hannibal comes!_ ”  The backing dancers sing, and Monsieur Thenardier appears from behind, clad in an orange and red kilt, donning a golden Viking helmet – he was Hannibal.

“ _Sad to return to find the land we love,_ ” he booms, “ _threatened once more by Roma's far-reaching grasp—_ ”  but the music comes to a halt, and everyone is frozen in their previous positions. The chatter begins, and the director, Combeferre, comes on stage, “Monsieur Thenardier, you’re saying it all wrong,” he says, and Monsieur Thenardier gives him a confused look. “If you please, Monsieur, we say ‘Rome’, like the English ‘roam’, not ‘Roma’.”

“Ah, yes,” Monsieur Thenardier registers in English, “’Rome’, not ‘Roma’. Yes. I’m sorry,” he bows apologetically and Combeferre nods at him in appreciation, and turns around to leave the stage.

A jubilant laugh emits from the grand doors of the opera house, which distracts everyone on stage.

“Monsignor Javert!” a raven-haired ballet girl whispers in surprise, and the ballet girls huddle around her. The entire stage gazes at the intruder, who has brought two men along with him. They were laughing, and the sound of Monsignor Javert’s cane against the rich maroon carpet is muffled at best, its sounds travelling through the entire opera house. The three men did not seem to realize the attention they were currently receiving and continued conversing.

Combeferre claps his hands once, and this jolts everyone on stage, even the conductor, Feuilly. “Let’s start again from Hannibal’s entrance, if you please, Monsieur Thenardier.” Monsieur Thenardier flashes him the ‘okay’ sign and strides to the back of the stage, ready for his re-entry.

Feuilly is raising his arms to begin conducting the music when someone behind him clears his throat, “Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice calls, and everyone turns to the speaker – the owner of the opera house, Monsignor Javert.

“Some of you may have already met these two men: Monsieur Enjolras—” he motions to one of the two men behind him.

Monsieur Enjolras was blond and lean, his suit sticking to his body like a second skin. His delicate curls were tied back with a dark blue velvet ribbon, so dark it looked almost black. He had a stern face, unbelievably snow-white skin and gaunt features, with a strict posture that demanded respect.

“—and this is Monsieur Grantaire—” Monsieur Javert points at the dark-haired man beside Monsieur Enjolras.

If Monsieur Enjolras was the hot sun, Monsieur Grantaire would be the cool night: they were the complete contrasts of each other. Monsieur Grantaire seemed built, with his shoulders broad and square compared to Enjolras’ thin ones, his hair was unruly and he wore a dark green suit. His face was one of friendliness, a light and welcoming smile playing on his lips. His skin was dark – a natural tan, if you will, and a square-set jaw that on other people would make them look intimidating, but on him made him look soft. He had a light scruff which did not go unnoticed, and his posture was one of a prince, kind and open.

He moves forward half a step and bows to all those present, and someone in the back of the ballet started whispering and giggling. The raven-haired girl shot them a stern look, and they stopped their chatter.

“I’m sorry, Monsignor Javert,” Combeferre interrupts from his seat on the front row, “but we’re rehearsing,” he drags the last word, “so if you could just—” he stops short, and Monsignor Javert seems to understand, “I apologize, Monsieur Combeferre, please do go on.” He bounces on the balls of his feet and walks away to find a chair, Monsieur Enjolras and Monsieur Grantaire following him closely.

“Thank you, Monsignor,” Combeferre says half-heartedly, and turns his attention back to the stage, “alright, Monsieur Thenardier, from your first line. Madame Thenardier, stay where you are.” He sighs audibly before saying, “whenever you are ready, Feuilly.”

Feuilly turns and nods at him, and before the music begins, he hears Monsignor Javert from behind him, saying something along the lines of “—Monsieur Combeferre, our director. He’s a bit of a tyrant, I’m afraid. And our conductor, Monsieur Feuilly—” but before Monsignor Javert could finish his sentence, Bahorel and his orchestra begins out of pure spite, to silence the old man and his unwelcome opinions on anything besides their talents.

Monsieur Thenardier changes his approach as Hannibal when his cue comes, booming even more, “ _sad to return to find the land we love, threatened once more by Rome's far-reaching grasp. Tomorrow we shall break the chains of Rome. Tonight, rejoice - your army has come home!_ ”

The ballet dancers then enter with a synchronised grand jeté, and continue in their dance when someone from the back trips and falls to the floor, and another dancer steps on their ankle. In a fit of panic, the second dancer grabs another dancer’s wrist to keep herself upright, but she ends up falling as well. Before they knew it, all the ballet dancers with the exception of the raven-haired one in the front have fallen to the stage floor. Monsieur Grantaire has to clamp a hand to his mouth to prevent a gasp from emitting from his mouth.

“Gentlemen!” the raven-haired girl cries, and this gets the attention of the three men. “If you would kindly stop talking and stop distracting my girls? And also, Monsieur Grantaire, rid your face of that smile, Azelma is distracted.”

“My apologies, Mademoiselle Thenardier,” Monsignor Javert offers. She does not respond and stomps to the back of the formation, and without bothering to help anybody up, reprimands the entire group.

While Mademoiselle Thenardier reprimands the rest of the ballet dancers, Javert whispers to the two men on his either side, “That is the lead ballet dancer, Mademoiselle Eponine Thenardier. She’s the daughter of the two leads, Monsieur Thenardier, who is Hannibal, and Madame Thenardier, who plays Elissa. She grew up in this theatre with her siblings Azelma, who you just distracted, and Gavroche, a young stage hand. She is a very passionate leader.”

“She seems intimidating,” Monsieur Grantaire says, and Monsieur Javert only chuckles.

“I don’t mind confessing, Monsieurs, that I won’t be missing this place once I have handed this to you.”

“But in all seriousness, Monsignor, why are you retiring?” Monsieur Enjolras inquires, eyes not tearing away from the stage, where the ballet dancers were now getting up.

Monsignor Javert does not answer, but instead, he says, “We take a particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets.”

By this time Mademoiselle Thenardier – Eponine – is conversing with Monsieur Combeferre and Feuilly, and Combeferre dismisses everyone else on stage except for the ballet dancers, “we shall start from the entrance of the ballet dancers, shall we? Everyone else, you have a break.”

The people on stage immediately vacate, except for the terrified-looking ballet dancers all huddled in a corner.

“Places!” Eponine shouts and everyone on stage assembles to their position. “I will be down here, observing you.”

The music starts, and they enter with their grand jeté, and without Eponine beside her, a blonde girl is alone on the front and centre.

“Who’s that one?” Monsieur Enjolras asks, pointing at her.

“That’s Cosette Fauchelevent. Her father, Ultime, is a great sponsor of the opera house. She only used to be here to watch the rehearsals with her father but she catches on the steps quite quickly Mademoiselle Thenardier recruited her without any inquiry. She is our best and most promising dancer; her tandem with Mademoiselle Thenardier is intangible.”

A too-hard collision sound is heard from the stage and one dancer is a second too late from all the others, making their presence distinguishable from everyone else.

Eponine groans loudly. “You, Jehan Prouvaire! Focus!” she shouts.

“Prouvaire?” Monsieur Grantaire inquires, tone incredulous.

“Isn’t that the cellist? Wife was a poet?” Monsieur Enjolras adds.

“Their child, I was told. After the parents died he was brought here by Feuilly, who was a student with him together.  He often has his head up in the clouds, I’m afraid.”

“’He’?” Grantaire is even more confused.

The ballet continues, this time with Eponine joining them in the middle of it, beside Cosette. They dance until the end of it and exit as the music transitions into something else mellower. The chorus begins to sing, “ _Bid welcome to Hannibal's guests – the elephants of Carthage! As guides on our conquering quests, Dido sends Hannibal's friends!_ ”

A gigantic mechanical elephant appears from the same corner where Monsieur Thenardier enters, and the man is hoisted onto its back with victorious cheer.

Madame Thenardier then enters from the other side, “ _Once more to my welcoming arms, my love returns in splendour!_ ”

“ _Once more to those sweetest of charms, my heart and soul surrender!_ ” Monsieur Thenardier sings back.

“ _The trumpeting elephants sound, hear, Romans, now and tremble! Hark to their step on the ground, hear the drums!_ ” the chorus sings, “ _Hannibal comes!_ ” and the segment ends.

Monsignor Javert, Monsieur Enjolras and Monsieur Grantaire clap generously, and Madame Thenardier flashes them a wide smile.

Everyone on-stage disperses; the mechanical elephant is lead away back into the darkness behind the stage, when Monsignor Javert chooses this moment to speak to all those present.

"Ladies and gentlemen,” he clears his throat, “may I have your attention please?”

The whispers die down gradually, and Monsignor Javert goes on.

“As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my so-called ‘retirement’, and I can now tell you that these were all true,” Cosette grabs Eponine’s elbow as Monsignor Javert continues, “and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, Monsieur Enjolras and Monsieur Grantaire,” he says, motioning to the two younger men behind him.

The two men bow cordially to the performers, who clap politely for them.

A small squeak emits from Cosette’s mouth, and Madame Thenardier has pushed herself to the front of the ensemble, and Monsieur Thenardier rolls his eyes as Monsignor Javert leads the two new owners of the opera nearer, “this is Signora Thenardier, our leading soprano for five seasons now, going six.”

Madame Thenardier offers her hand to shake theirs, but Monsieur Enjolras moves to kiss it (and Eponine raises her brow in bemusement), “I have seen most of your performances, Madame. Such brilliance,” he says, and Madame Thenardier bats her eyelashes at him. (Jehan and Azelma had to restrain Cosette from bursting into mocking laughter.) Monsieur Grantaire firmly shakes her hand.

“And this is Monsieur Thenardier,” Monsignor Javert leads them away to shake hands with the lead male. “An honour, Monsieur,” Monsieur Grantaire shakes his hand as well, and Monsieur Enjolras follows suit.

Monsieur Grantaire seems to brighten up, an idea striking his head, "If I remember correctly, Elissa has a rather fine aria in Act Three of ‘Hannibal’. I wonder, Madame, if, as a personal favour, you would allow us to hear a private rendition?” he inquires. Monsieur Enjolras looked intense as he whispered something urgently in Monsieur Grantaire’s ear. Monsieur Grantaire turns red almost instantly. “Unless, of course, Monsieur Combeferre objects…” he adds, in a somewhat embarrassed tone.

Madame Thenardier eyes Monsieur Combeferre with a sharp look, "My manager commands... Monsieur Combeferre?"

Combeferre bows his head only slightly, smiling, "My diva commands! Will two bars be sufficient?"

Monsieur Grantaire smiles widely, "yes, it would be sufficient, thank you."

Feuilly moves to the stand, flipping through the pages of the opera's book. Madame Thenardier is fixing her hair. "Madame?" Feuilly inquires, seeing if the star is ready. "Maestro," Madame Thenardier responds getting into position, and someone among the ballet girls rushes in to hand her a red scarf that complements her costume of thick red, green and gold.

Combeferre nods at Feuilly who takes a large breath, and he begins to move his hands in a rhythm.

The opening notes of the number might as well be the musical representation of the warm sun: light, bright, carefree; sending all those present at ease with the music.

" _Think of me,_ " Madame Thenardier begins, " _think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye._ "

From her position on stage she goes to remove her scarf and sways in time to the music, " _remember me every-so-often; promise me you'll try._ "

" _On that day,_ " she flutters her eyes closed for a dramatic effect, " _that not-so-distant day, when you are far away and free! If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me._ "

She walks about the front of the stage in minced steps, seemingly wistful, " _think of me, think of me well-_ "

Her note is interrupted by a low cry from above, and a shriek distinctly from Cosette.

The wooden scaffolding from over the stage falls with a loud 'bang' right in front of Madame Thenardier, and right over her head is the young Opera caretaker, Bahorel, hanging on to a piece of rope.

Madame Thenardier looks up and Combeferre offers her an 'I'm sorry' smile as he adjusts his round glasses as Cosette cries out, "he's there! The Phantom of the Opera!"

The ballet dancers scream and bolt in different directions, Eponine making a grab for Azelma and Cosette and rushing to where the mechanical elephant now stood backstage.

Monsier Thenardier grabs Cosette's wrist to stop her from running off, "you idiot!" he shouts. Eponine tugs her away from him and bolts away with the two girls.

Monsieur Thenardier strides over to his wife, "mon cherie, are you hurt? Are you alright?" he asks, but there was no response. He follows her gaze up, and finds Bahorel overhead.

"You idiot!" he calls out again as Monsignor Javert rushes to the two of them with caution, "Madame, are you alright?" he asks before crying for Bahorel. "Bahorel! Where are you, boy?"

"Up here!" Bahorel cries back, and Monsignor Javert looks up. "Get down here! Now!"

He rushes back to the two new owners of the opera, "that was Bahorel, apprentice to taking care of the opera. He's responsible for this."

Enjolras and Grantaire look at each other as they stand on the side of the stage, everyone thrown in a fit of panic over Cosette's announcement and the collapse of the wooden scaffold.

Monsieur Thenardier looks around, "is no one concerned for our prima donna?" he cries, but no one spares them a glance. Bahorel scoffs.

Monsignor Javert rushes back to the boy hanging above the stage, "Bahorel! For goodness' sake, boy, what's going on up there?" he demands.

Bahorel does not respond and swings the rope to the side, landing himself on another plank of wood and climbing down the wooden scaffolding, "please, Monsignor, don't look at me, God knows I was not at my post."

He lands on the stage, "please Monsignor, there's no one there, and if there is, then it must be a ghost!" He shouts, looking directly at Cosette, who has come out of hiding from the backstage. The chorus and the ballet dancers shriek and gasp in fear.

"He's there, the Phantom of the Opera," Cosette says, coming out of the shadows, "he's there, the Phantom of the Opera!"

Monsieur Enjolras finally speaks, "Madamoiselle, please!" he cries, annoyed by the proceedings. But Cosette only looks at him and repeats, "he's there, the Phantom of the Opera."

Monsieur Grantaire is slowly making his way to Madame Thenardier, "do these things really happen?" he inquires cautiously. 

"Oui!" Madame Thenardier exclaims, "These things do happen!"

Monsieur Grantaire eyes Madame Thenardier with a scrutinizing look. Madame Thenardier returns this look with an offended one.

"Well," she huffs, "if you stop these things from happening... I'm telling you, these things do happen!" she sobs, grabs her heavy skirt and runs off the stage, the red scarf falling off her shoulders.

"Cherie!" Monsieur Thenardier calls and runs after her.

Monsignor Javert taps his cane lightly on the floorboards of the stage, "well, Monsieurs, I'm afraid I can no longer assist you. Good luck," he says. "If you need me, I shall be in Germany," he adds as an afterthought. He bows slightly and walks off the stage, his heels clicking behind him as he hums a tune.

Monsieur Enjolras and Monsieur Grantaire look at each other before Monsieur Enjolras says, "she'll be back," with a smile.

"You think so, Monsieur?" Eponine appears from backstage, ballet shoes off and a folded piece of parchment in hand. Monsieur Enjolras looks at her.

"That," she points to where Madame Thenardier ran off with the tip of the parchment, "was my mother. And if anything, I know my mother. And my mother, if she isn't pleased, will stay away from the very thing that makes her upset."

Monsieur Enjolras, who if you thought was not frowning already, frowned even more.

"Also," Eponine walks around Monsieur Enjolras from behind and squeezes herself between Monsieur Enjolras and Monsieur Grantaire, "I have a message," she holds the folded piece of parchment up, "from the Opera Ghost." She smiles smugly. The entire opera gasps.

Monsieur Grantaire sets his jaw and looks at Eponine, who opens the note, and doing a quick scan of its contents, says aloud, "he merely welcomes you to the opera house, and reminds you that his monthly salary is due--"

"Salary?" Monsieur Enjolras interrupts, incredulous. Monsieur Grantaire silences him.

"--and commands you to leave Box Five empty for his use." She finishes and folds the parchment in half again, and Monsieur Grantaire snatches it from her hands.

"Salary?" Monsieur Enjolras repeats, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Yes, his salary. Monsignor Javert paid him twenty thousand francs, perhaps you could afford more, with Monsignor de Courfeyrac as your patron."

The other ballet dancers gasp upon hearing Monsignor de Courfeyrac's name, and they begin to titter amongst each other.

Monsignor de Courfeyrac was a famous French high-class bachelor who had curly brown hair and the most adorable smile. He was also known to be a charming and polite man who had quite the number of love affairs who left with no regrets and content smiles on their faces -- a Casanova, if you will.

"Why would he need a salary, does haunting the opera cost a lot?" Monsieur Enjolras mocks.

Eponine's face grew dark, but she says nothing.

Cosette speaks. "Will Monsignor de Courfeyrac be coming tonight then?"

"Yes, he will be in our box," Monsieur Grantaire answers accordingly.

Monsieur Enjolras walks towards Monsieur Combeferre, "Monsieur, who is the understudy for the role of Elissa?"

Monsieur Combeferre opens his mouth to answer, but Feuilly responds instead, "there is no understudy, Monsieur, the production is new!"

Azelma raises her hands swiftly, "Jehan Prouvaire could do it, sir!" she exclaimed. Monsieur Grantaire, Monsieur Enjolras and Eponine whip their heads around to look at Azelma.

"The dancer boy?" Monsieur Enjolras asks with a snarl.

"Why not?" Azelma inquires innocently. Eponine strides to her and grabs her by the arm, shaking her to silence her.

"Yes, why not? He has been taking lessons from a great teacher." Cosette beams, turning around and grabbing the ginger long-haired, lanky boy -- who was attempting to disappear -- by the wrist and bringing him forward.

"And who is this teacher?" Monsieur Enjolras asks, back turned from the chorus girls.

Jehan stutters, "I-I don't know, sir." The end of his sentence sounding like it was more of a question than a response.

Monsieur Grantaire seems to groan something that sounded something like, "oh, not you as well!"

He turns to Monsieur Enjolras, "can you believe it? First day on the job, we get a full house but we have to cancel!"

"Who says we have to cancel?" Eponine interrupts. "Let him sing. He has been well-taught."

Monsieur Grantaire grimaces, "oh alright. From the beginning of the aria, Monsieur."

The ballet dancers disappear backstage, Eponine offering Jehan a pat on his shoulder and Cosette clasping his hands in good luck. Eponine takes Cosette's hand and leads her away from the stage, and Jehan picks up the fallen red scarf from the floor and wraps it around himself.

The introductory notes fill the room once again, this time lazy and annoyed.

" _Think of me,_ " Jehan starts, his voice quivering in a fit of nerves. He's never felt like this while he danced, why was this happening now? " _Think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye._ "

Now when he needs it, he loses his voice? What is going on with him?

" _Think of me every-so-often, promise me you'll try._ " He sounds like he's sobbing.

Monsieur Enjolras brings a hand to the bridge of his nose, "Oh god, this is doing nothing for my nerves."

Monsieur Grantaire tails him closely, a hand pressed lightly on the blond man's back, "Don’t fret, Enjolras."

The two men didn't seem to realise they were being loud, because Jehan heard them -- crystal clear. Many thoughts plagued his mind at once, but one thing was all he registered: 'prove them wrong.'

" _On that day, that not-so-distant day,_ " his voice grew bigger and stronger, " _when you are far away and free! If you ever find a moment,_ " he closes his eyes to seem nostalgic, 'if you proved them right, what would He do? He exerted a lot of effort to train you to sing. Don't waste his time!' He takes a huge breath.

" _Spare a thought for me._ "

 

 

There was a blur of colour, and Jehan was centre-stage, light shining upon him, donning the costume for Elissa. His long usually-braided hair was down in natural, bouncy curls, a crown on top of her head.

“ _And though it’s clear, oh it was always clear that this was never meant to be,_ ” his clasped hands open up gradually, “ _if you happen to remember, stop and think of me._ ”

He tosses one end of the scarf to the floor and drags it along with him, “ _think of all the things we’ve shared and seen – don’t think about the things which might have been._ ”

With calculated steps, he bounces on the balls of his feet and approaches the centre of the stage, “ _think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned._ ”

He twirls to look at the audience in the centre, all of them seeming to come from bourgeoisie or higher. Normally, the sight would have been distasteful, but he was Elissa now, not Jehan Prouvaire, the ballet dancer who always talked under his breath on-stage to anyone who could hear about how there was no such thing as a free opera and how it was always for the rich and look at that man in the third row of Category Two, he looks like he’s going to pass out any moment, can someone run there later and give him something to drink?

(Eponine reprimanded him for talking while dancing, and also he wasn’t sitting in a box, you can’t just offer him something to drink, and this proves Jehan’s point that the opera was only for the rich. Eponine waves him off, denying her defeat but knowing it full well.)

"Imagine me, trying to hide, to put you from my mind."

He beams wide at the audience, but his intentions are half-sincere, with his personal dislike for the bourgeoisie nagging him at the back of his head, “ _think of me, please say you’ll think of me, whatever it is you choose to do._ ”

He clasps his hands in finality, “ _there will never be a day when I won’t think of you._ ”

He tosses the scarf over his shoulder and begins performing the consecutive ballet routine.

Meanwhile, on Box Four, a man with curly, dark brown hair grabs Monsieur Enjolras by the shoulders, "is that who I think it is?" he demands, pointing at Jehan who was on-stage. Monsieur Enjolras raises his eyebrow. "What, him?"  
"Yes, him! That's Jehan Prouvaire, is it not?" he prods.  
"I believe so, yes." Monsieur Enjolras nods, reaching all over his waistcoat for his opera-glass.

The brown-haired man releases Monsieur Enjolras and turns back to the stage. "Bravo!" he breathily exclaims, applauding fiercely.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," Monsieur Grantaire distracts him from Monsieur Enjolras' left side, "but you know Jehan Prouvaire?"  
"I do," the man proudly announces. "But he may not remember me; it's been so long ago... We were so young..." he trails off, thoughtful.

" _Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade,_ " Jehan continues on with the last verse of the song, " _they have their seasons, so do we. But please promise me that sometimes you will think--_ "  
She stops abruptly, looking up at the audience on Category Two with a wide smile, and sings a wide aria of notes.  
" _\--of me!_ "

His performance was met with wide applause, receiving a few standing ovations from the audience. He smiles even wider, and bows gracefully, the same way he bowed when he was still part of the ballet chorus.

 

 

At the end of the show, he strides to the backstage, feeling as if her experience was surreal and that it was all a dream he cooked up. But when he reaches backstage he receives a boquet of red roses from Bahorel who smiles lightly at him. He returns the smile and thanks him with a small bow and walks away, but he is met by the other ballet dancers.

"Jehan, that was amazing! I know Papa would want to fund you!" Cosette exclaims, eyes big.  
"That was amazing, Jehan!" Azelma compliments, and another boy from the chorus adds, "I didn't know you could do that," in a thick accent.

The dancers went on to compliment his performance tonight, when Eponine appears out of nowhere and shouts, "oi!"

The tittering stops and all the dancers huddle all behind Cosette.

Eponine steps forward, ballet shoes unusually flat on the floor instead of on the tip of their toes. "That was wonderful," she says, admiration evident in her eyes, "He will be pleased."

Cosette puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and Jehan grasps it with a smile directed at Eponine.

"And you!" Eponine's tone changes almost instantly, her expressive eyes changing into a daunting expression. "You were a disgrace! Such ronds de jambe! Such temps de cuisse!" she shouts, "come! We rehearse. Now!" She turns around haughtily, and all the dancers trail behind her, the boys glancing at him as they walk away.

Jehan was left standing alone backstage, with the bouquet of flowers in hand. He stares at their retreating backs, reflecting on how differently Eponine treated him this morning and tonight.


	3. Angel of Music

There it was again.

"Brava," that voice of velvet sang, "brava. Bravissima."

Jehan was in Madame Thenardier's dressing room -- well, his, now, since Madame Thenardier quit this morning and the role of Elissa was shoved to him -- cleaning himself up when he hears the voice of velvet singing to him.

He was so intent on finding where that voice came from. He's here! But where?

He turns around, opening all doors and drawers in the room, looking under the vanity table-- "Jehan?"

He tries to get up, but his head collides with the underside of the vanity.

"Oh my god!" Cosette rushes towards him to help him up to a chair. "Are you alright?"  
"I'm alright. What are you doing here? You were supposed to be rehearsing, were you not?" he inquires, rubbing the back of his head, where he thinks a bump is trying to grow.

"I was," she responds, rubbing his shoulders, "but I snuck out to see you. You were amazing! Where did you learn to do that?"

Jehan looks around warily, and then looked again into Cosette's eyes. She seemed eager to know. 'It wouldn't hurt to tell her, right?' he thinks to himself.

"I--" he begins, but his throat hitches. Cosette's eyes grow bigger.

"My father," he breathes, "always told me stories of an angel -- the angel of music -- and I always dreamed he'd come to me," he looks away from Cosette, afraid of her stare contorting into an expression of fear or concern -- he doesn't need telling twice on how the angel of music is not real, he's got enough of that from Feuilly, and he certainly doesn't need it from Cosette.   
"And everytime I sing, I always feel Him watching me, especially tonight, He was there, in one of the boxes, I know, I could feel it."

Cosette tilts her head in confusion as Jehan continues, his eyes roaming the room, "I know that He's here too, in this room, somewhere, I can feel it."

He turns to look back again at Cosette, whose eyes were tender, but confused.   
"You must really miss your father," Cosette starts, "because stories like this do not come true, Jehan."

"They do!" cries Jehan indignantly, "they do happen! I see him! He's here! The Angel of Music! My guide and guardian!" he pleads to no one in particular, or so Cosette thinks.

Cosette seems to mumble something along the lines of "who is this Angel of Music?" she asks, putting her hand over his.

"He's here." He whispers shakily. His head whips to the closed closet door to the left of the room, where a big mirror hung.

Cosette clutches his shaking hands, "Jehan, your hands are cold!" she declares aloud. She looks up to Jehan, but his eyes are wide in alarm and his face pale. "he's here!" he cries this time.   
She pays everything that comes out of his mouth no mind as she examines his face, "your face is white, Jehan, do you need any water?"   
The grip on Cosette's hands grow tighter, "it frightens me."  
Jehan thinks Cosette misunderstood what he meant when she responds, "it's only nothing, you do not need to be frightened."

The door slams open.

"There you are!" a shrill voice shouts. Jehan and Cosette turn around in fear. Eponine is charging at them from the door while Azelma follows meekly behind. Eponine grabs Cosette's wrist brusquely, "what are you doing here? You are supposed to be practicing! Come!" she drags Cosette out of the room as Azelma tosses a piece of parchment onto Jehan's lap.   
"Some bloke asked me to give it to you," was all Azelma said before prancing after her sister.

Jehan looks at the paper, assessing its exterior. It doesn't tell much about where it came from. He picks it up deftly and opens it, a lighthearted scrawl filling the pages.

'A red scarf,' it says, 'the attic; Little Lotte.'

Little Lotte was the story Jehan's parents (most of the time his mother) used to tell him when he was younger, about a young girl who gets a visit from the Angel of Music at a very young age, earlier than all the other children who were supposed to be visited by the Angel because she took good care of her things, was polite and generous and was always eager to practice with her fiddle. Her goodness made her one of the youngest children the Angel guarded, especially against the monsters at night, and he flew over her bed, singing to her as she falls into a deep slumber.

At the knowledge that the poet Valerié Prouvaire lived right beside their home, a well-to-do family sent their son Gilliard to their doorstep to greet the new neighbours and to hear all the poet's stories, to learn how to use words and string them together -- to be eloquent, as they say. Valerié Prouvaire was Gilliard's tutor.  
And so Jehan and Gilliard spent most of their time together: practicing writing letters, notes, speeches, poetry, stories, and sometimes Jehan practices with his flute while Gilliard recites his poetry at the top of his lungs. And then they'd listen to Valerié tell and retell the tale of Little Lotte and her Angel of Music until they fell asleep at two o' clock in the afternoon, and afterwards they'd awaken to practice again. 

Jehan's thoughts are interrupted by the boisterous laughter he hears from outside his dressing room. He jumps from the cushioned chair, leaving the piece of parchment on it and rushes to the door, locking it and pressing his ear against it.

"A tour de force!" A male voice declares, "there's no other way to describe it! She was phenomenal!"  
"Can you believe it, Enjolras, not a single refund!" a more brash male voice responds. A giggle -- a girl, surely -- and a 'thwack' sound as the girl jokingly says, "greedy!"

The two men laugh, "I think we've made quite a discovery with Monsieur Prouvaire," one of them say. Another one hums.

"Oh, yes, right, here's you are, Monsignor de Courfeyrac, Monsieur Prouvaire's dressing room." the first male voice Jehan hears declares.

'They're right outside!' Jehan realizes, and his eyes widen in shock.

"Thank you, gentlemen, now if you do not mind, this is one visit that I would like to make unaccompanied," a new voice speaks. A lofty-sounding one, smooth yet easy-going.

"As you wish, Monsignor," the brash voice responds, and as an afterthought, he adds with a joking tone, "they've apparently met before."

The girl giggles again, and heels pat against the wooden floor, the sounds gradually disappearing.

The knock on the door comes loud into Jehan's pressed ear, and he almost falls over on his enormous skirt. He grabs the doorknob for support, and with a sharp intake of breath, he unlocks and opens the door, and sees Monsignor de Courfeyrac stood outside his door with a wide smile and bouquet of pink and white flowers.

Jehan steps out of his way and turns around to sit on the chair, leaving the door open for the man outside to follow, which he does.

"Jehan Prouvaire," Monsignor de Courfeyrac calls, holding out his bouquet, "where is your red scarf?"  
"Excuse me?" Jehan inquires, tentatively taking the bouquet from him and putting it on the vanity table.   
"You can't have lost it," Monsignor de Courfeyrac looks at Jehan through the mirror right in front of them, "after all the trouble I went through -- I was only fifteen and soaked to the skin--!"  
Jehan tears his gaze away from the flowers and to the mirror to look at Monsignor de Courfeyrac, "--because you had jumped into the lake to fetch my scarf! Gilliard, it is you!" he leaps from the chair and wraps his arms around the other man. Courfeyrac returns the hug, "Jehan," he says, with a wide, bright smile. 


	4. The Mirror

They break their embrace and Jehan returns to sit on the chair, and Courfeyrac sits on one leg on the vanity table.  
Courfeyrac breathes deep, "Little Lotte, let her mind wander," he begins with a smile.   
Jehan looks at him with bright eyes, "you still remember that?"  
Courfeyrac nods, continuing, "Little Lotte thought: Am I fonder of dolls--"  
"Or of goblins," Jehan joins in, "or shoes?"  
Courfeyrac chuckles as Jehan continues the rhyme, "or of riddles, or of frocks--"  
"Those picnics in the attic, or of chocolates," Courfeyrac adds.  
"With Father playing the flute..."  
"As you, your mother and I told stories of all sorts about the North..."  
"No, what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head!" Jehan exclaimed in excitement.  
"The Angel of Music sings songs in my head." The both of them say.

Jehan sighs audibly, "I remember my parents said that once they're gone, I won't be alone, since they will send the Angel of Music to guard me from harm," he looks up to Courfeyrac, "and they are gone, Gilliard, and the Angel did come!"

"No doubt of it," Courfeyrac says with a smile. "And now, we go to supper," he declares, getting off the vanity and pulls Jehan with him. Jehan pulls back, alarmed, "I can't, Gilliard, the Angel is very strict!"  
"Of course he is, and I won't be keeping you up late," he responds, slightly confused.  
"No, Gilliard, you don't understand--" Jehan protests. Courfeyrac touches his nose with a finger, "no. You go and change, I will fetch my hat. Give me a few moments," he says, "Little Lotte."

He leaves the room with a smile, humming the tune of 'Think of Me' as he leaves.

Jehan shrieks after Courfeyrac, "things have changed, Gilliard!" but the door closes, and he isn't heard.

* * *

 

As Jehan looks at the mirror in front of him, a strong whiff of wind and a distinct smell of roses cling on to his senses, cold and heavy on his skin.

"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory!" a voice sings from behind the full-length mirror attached to the closet behind her.  
"Ignorant fool!" the voice booms again, Jehan flinches, "this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph."

Jehan is terrified and clutches the vanity table tight, "Angel, I hear you -- speak, I listen. Stay by my side; guide me."  
Another strong scent of roses overpowers all the other flowers in the room.   
"Angel, my soul was weak -- forgive me. Enter, at last, Master!" he pleads, voice wavering in fear.

The voice scoffs lightly, "flattering child, you shall know me. See why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror, I am there, inside!"

Jehan bolts from his chair and rushes forward to his full-length mirror and looks at himself in scrutiny. Is the Angel of Music just a figure of his imagination? Has his brain taken it too far now? Was he mentally ill now?

The mirror fogs and a figure emerges from the other side. A masked face, a black cape wound around his back, a clean-cut suit on his body.

"Angel of Music!" Jehan can no longer hide the excitement is his voice. "Guide and guardian, grant to me your glory!"   
The room begins to turn cold, but Jehan does not notice the bumps growing on his skin. He is enamoured by the Angel. "Angel of Music, hide no longer! Come to me, strange angel."

"I am your Angel of Music," the man behind the mirror sings, "come to me: Angel of Music."

Jehan reaches out to the mirror slowly, tracing the mask of the Angel in his mirror with the tips of his long fingers.   
"I am your Angel of Music, come to me: Angel of Music," the man repeats, and the mirror is cold, painful against Jehan's skin, but that thought is discarded as the mirror slowly moves forward and reveals a passageway, the mysterious Angel in front of it.

The Angel offers his hand out and Jehan, enchanted, takes it. He shivers at the contact between him and the cold, pale skin of the man behind his mirror. The Angel slowly helps him into the mirror. And by some sort of magical force, the mirror-door closes behind them as Jehan and the Angel disappear behind it.

The dressing room door bursts open, a proud-looking Courfeyrac looks around the room.

The room is empty. "Jehan?" he calls out. No one responds.

The room is small, so Courfeyrac scans it quickly. It wouldn't be impossible for one of Jehan's size to hide in all of the dark crevices of the room without showing a part of his body. But where has he gone?

"Jehan?" Courfeyrac calls again, louder this time, but no one responds.

Where is Jehan?

 


	5. The Phantom

Behind the mirror was dark, but Jehan could identify noises of water. He could distinctly feel wood beneath his heeled shoes. The Angel pulls one of his hands in a slight rush, and then leads him down a rather long flight of stairs.

He arrives on the landing at the end of the steps as his eyes adjusted to the darkness with which the mirror passageway brought him to. He realises he is standing on a moat, and beyond the moat was a small lake, where the edges were lighted up with candles which seemed to be floating in the darkness. At the end of the moat was small rowboat, which the Angel walked towards and beckoned him to follow.

The Angel stepped on to the rowboat, rocking it slightly. He picks up a long black oar from under the benches of the rowboat, and held out his hand to help Jehan on. Jehan doesn’t know what to feel. He’s terrified on one hand, and on the other, curious. Enchanted, enamoured.

During his younger years, Jehan used to imagine himself as Little Lotte, being sung to sleep by the Angel of Music, guided at night and the very next morning, he’d attempt to recreate the songs he hears in his sleep, but they’d prove impossible. He forgot the words, the rhythm of everything, but he can remember the smooth voice of velvet that the Angel had sung in, the same voice with which he calls Jehan out with; a calm soothing voice, which for years after his parents’ death, he stopped believing in and looking for.

It’s like he’s returned to his childhood years, where in the dark night he escapes into his dreams to meet the Angel of Music. Or was this actually a dream?

“I can hear you thinking, my child,” the Angel speaks, after moments of silence. Jehan turns around to look at him, confused. “It is almost as if you do not want to sing for me anymore, as if you do not want to be taught by me anymore.”

Jehan’s gaze falls onto the Angel black leather shoes, which, although dark, gleams with polish. Jehan turns back around to look ahead, the white fog clearing away as the Angel rows forward.

“You turn around, child, but you can never escape the question.” The Angel says in a light-hearted tone.

Jehan picks at the frills of his dress, picking apart the threads that hold them together, “they are afraid of you, you know,” he mumbles, “you are very intelligent, but they are afraid of you.”

“I know,” the Angel responds.

“You told me once, that music is a language. They like your music. Do you mean to say that when I sing your creations, it is instead you they hear? Why don’t you sing it instead? You will understand what is required more than I do.”  
“But they do not like my face, my mask. So I cannot. You, however, are the only one allowed to sing my music. You are a very clever child, but I do not understand how you merely understand this now,” he laughs. Jehan chews on his lip.

The Angel stops rowing, puts down the oar and picks up a rope, which he throws out of the boat. He tugs, and Jehan sees another moat. The angel ties the rope tightly around a wooden pillar and gets onto the moat holding his hand out for Jehan to come off the boat.

With his hand on the Angel’s, the Angel leads him forward, off the moat and into a door, and through the door a dark room with a marble floor. The Angel leaves his side and proceeds to light all the candles around the room, and before he realises it, the grand marble room is lighted up with an orange hue.

Jehan has been here many times before, but he still is not used to the grand scale of the Angel’s lair. Marble columns, a marble floor, a grand organ in the centre of it all. To the right of the organ was a spiralling staircase he has never even touched (he has never allowed him too as well) and underneath the spiralling staircase a daybed covered with thick woollen blankets and a pile of pillows.

“You are so mysterious,” Jehan speaks as the Angel walks towards his organ.

“And yet, I am human as well,” the Angel responds.

“There you are again, so mysterious.”  
“I am both, if you will.”  
“I will.”

It is always like this, Jehan thinks, the Angel speaks in riddles with him, he is never frank about anything. He never tells Jehan who he really is, who is under that mask. His only concern seems to be just the music he creates with him. Everything else is unclear.

“You’re thinking again.”  
“I’m sorry.”   
“Do not worry yourself anymore, come,” he holds out his hand from where he sits in front of the grand organ. “We shall sing instead.”

Jehan moves forward and takes his hand, and he stands beside the instrument as the Angel bangs on some keys to warm him up.

“Are you ready?” the Angel inquires, smile lighting up his masked face.

Jehan closes his eyes lightly as he takes a deep breath and begins to vocalise every note the Angel plays, going higher and higher.

“Go on, sing!” the Angel encourages, but Jehan shakes his head holding the note. He can’t go on higher, it’s too high.

“Sing!” he exclaims like a madman, and Jehan’s eyes widen. He clutches on his neck and shakes his head again.

“Do it!” he shouts in mirth, and Jehan closes his eyes tightly and goes higher, and higher, and higher until his voice gives way, and before he could hear it crack, he closes his mouth. He gasps a large breath, and the Angel ends off the scale, a crazed smile on his lips, his cheekbones lifting his mask up.

This is the first time Jehan has seen the Angel like this, and he doesn’t know if he should be frightened.


	6. Stranger Than You Dream It

“I’m tired.” Jehan declares.   
The Angel turns to him from his work, “already?” he sounds surprised.   
“Yes. I had a tiring day,” he yawns.  
The Angel smiles lightly and gets up from his chair by the organ, and his smile contorting into a playful smirk, he takes Jehan like a bride.  
Jehan shrieks in surprise, but he begins to giggle, and the Angel follows suit.  
The Angel carries him to the daybed underneath the staircase and he hovers over the singer for a while, covering him with a thick blanket and then decidedly walking away, but Jehan pulls his wrist, “lie down with me?”  
The Angel is silent, but sighs and sits on the foot of the bed while Jehan scoots over, and he lies beside him.

Jehan turns towards him, and he traces the edges of the Angel’s mask. The Angel’s breath hitches.  
Jehan wants to ask him about his real identity: who is really under that mask? Who really is this Angel of Music?  
“You said you were tired?” The Angel asks, and Jehan smiles drowsily. The Angel returns it. He reaches up to caress Jehan’s hair and he begins to hum an unfamiliar tune.   
‘It must be another one of his unperformed creations,’ Jehan thinks, leaning into his touch.

“You go to sleep,” the Angel instructs. Jehan looks at him with half-lidded eyes. “I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.”  
“You sound nice. Why won’t you sing?”  
“You said earlier – they were afraid of me, I can’t be on-stage.” The Angel responds lightly. Jehan stays silent.   
“Go to sleep.” He prods again.   
“Sing me to sleep, like you always do, when I was younger,” Jehan requests.  
The Angel huffs a sigh, but smiles and resumes his humming.  
He then begins to sing in hushed tones, a song that no one has heard before, even Jehan.  
His voice is soothing like cream and his song calm and assuring. Why hasn’t allowed this song to be performed before, this song has to be shared with the world!

Slowly, Jehan dozes off with the idea of remembering the words to this song and telling everyone more of the Angel’s genius.

By the time he finishes the song, Jehan was already snoring lightly. He smiles endearingly before getting up – a task in itself, so he won’t wake up – and covers him with the blanket fully before returning to his work by the organ.

His work varies every night, depending on what his muse felt like doing. Usually his muse was sad, especially when Jehan was not around, and he’d write sad songs, tuneless sometimes, but each with an aria that only Jehan could sing. Of course, he is training the boy to sing his songs the same why he hears it in his head. He’d never allow Madame Thenardier anywhere near even one page of his sheet music. He loathed the woman and her arrogance in her talent: she was talented, but it has come to the point where she believes she is the only in all of Paris who could sing like that.

But her children, they were brilliant in their talents, and also very useful in his endeavours. After all, how would he be faring now in the outside world if it weren’t for the Thenardier siblings who took pity on him and brought him to his new home, here, under the opera? He owed everything to them and their efficiency and their bright imaginations.

Time pauses quite quickly, and he doesn’t realise it, drowning in the music he was making, when Jehan awakes suddenly.

Jehan is disoriented to say the least. He awakes on a mattress looking up on a white ceiling illuminated by a flickering orange glow he identifies to be candles. He is covered in a thick black duvet. He wants to get up when he hears music played on what distinctly sounds like an organ. It is mesmerising, only the last notes sound nervous and tentative. And then the music starts again, right from the beginning, and Jehan closes his eyes lightly.

He remembers a fog covering the lake that shimmered, candles floating (was it in mid-air or on water?), and a wooden boat with a long oar and a man with a white mask and a voice of velvet donned in beautiful clothing.

The man… Who was he? He’s seen him so many times… Oh right, he was his Angel of Music, the one who from childhood plagued his dreams with song and music so heavenly.  
But who was he, really? What was the man, who was the mystery, who was under the mask? Who was the man in the shadows, sitting on Box Five every night, watching his every move?  
With all the silence he can muster, he reaches to his lower back and unclasps his skirt under the thick blanket, leaving his legs covered by skin-tight pyjamas clipped together from the inside. He takes the heap of lace and white satin skirt and set beside him the blanket.  
He rises quietly from the daybed and sees the Angel on the organ, occupied. He stands and crosses the room’s cold marble floor on tiptoe, and he strides to the Angel’s turned back, praying his traitorous cracking joints don’t make a sound at this moment.  
He bites his lip. Something tells him he’s going to regret this.  
Before he knew it, the mask is off the Angel’s face and tossed to the floor, and Jehan shrieks in the shock and falls to the floor at the same time the Angel stands up from his bench with a wretched cry and covers his supposed masked face with his hand.

If he was an angel, he looked like those that guarded the roofs and towers of the Notre-Dame Cathedral. He was terrifying.

He’s never seen the Angel this full of rage before; he’s charging at him and grabs his wrist roughly, tightening his grip on it with his remaining hand and shouts, “damn you, you little prying Pandora!”  
Jehan’s eyes water out of fear, and he slides away from the Angel, and he flings his wrist away with another angry yell, “you witch! Is this all you wanted out of me?”

Jehan shakes his head to deny this, but the Angel is too angry to pay attention as he yells to the boy on the floor, “curse you, you little lying Delilah! You little viper! Damn you, curse you!” he chants.

Jehan retreats into himself on the first step of the staircase up, and tears are on the edges of his eyes, ready to fall out.

The Angel turns away from Jehan and rubs his face in frustration. “Can you even dare to look, or think of me knowing that I look like this?” he asks, turning around to look at Jehan, who whimpers and ducks his head in between his knees in response.  
“I am hideous, a gargoyle who burns in hell, but yearns for heaven secretly…” he goes on, and those words sound familiar, like one of his other songs that he refuses to allow the opera to play.   
He reaches for Jehan’s face, to lift his head up so he can look at him, “oh, Jehan,” he pleads, but Jehan avoids his hand like it had touched something that contracted the plague.

“Fear can turn into love, you’ll learn to see,” he attempts to explain, “to find the man behind the monster, this repulsive carcass. This beast who dreams of beauty…” and Jehan looks at him with eyes the combined anger, hurt and surprise at his words. “Oh, Jehan,” he begins again, but Jehan gets up and walks to the mask and picks it up without a second thought.

The Angel takes his mask nervously and tentatively puts it on, his sadness and fear reflected in his dark almost-black eyes. With the mask now back on his face, relief washes over him. He then takes Jehan’s wrist, gentler this time, but still rather forceful, “come,” he drags him to the daybed and uncovers his big skirt. “You must return. Those new fools who now run my theatre might be missing you.” He leaves Jehan standing there with his skirt in his hands and goes out the door and onto the moat, and Jehan does not need to think when he wraps his skirt around him and attaches the clips back on, and follows the Angel back out onto the moat.


	7. Why Are We Here?

They find him in his dressing room the very next morning, crying and clutching his knees to his chest.

Cosette is the first one who rushes to him and rubs his back, whispering words of consolation and Eponine, who stood by the door, comes forward and pushes his hair from his eyes, her own eyes boring into his looking for an explanation of his crying, but she doesn’t speak aloud.  
Soon all the other ballet dancers stand outside the door, peering into it to see if Jehan is unharmed. He is, luckily, but he cannot stop sobbing, which alarms all of them.

Courfeyrac comes in looking flustered, almost shoving Cosette and Eponine away from the tear-induced boy, and he cups both his cheeks.  
Jehan is hiccupping by now, struggling to remove Courfeyrac’s hands from his face, trying to say ‘let’s leave’ but because of his sobbing he only manages to say ‘leave’. Courfeyrac’s face is one of submission, and he gets up to leave but Jehan tugs on his left wrist, “no – no – take me with you—” he pleads, and Courfeyrac helps him up as Jehan tries to catch his breath.

Everything else is a blur, but he takes notice of Jehan taking the lead, and before he knew it, they’re on the roof of the Notre-Dame, Jehan’s face occupied with panic. He mutters things like ‘can’t stay’ and ‘leave’ and ‘he will follow us’. Courfeyrac grabs him by his thin shoulders to calm him down, and adds in a smile. Jehan exhales, avoiding Courfeyrac’s eyes.  
“Is everything alright?” Courfeyrac asks, “Why are we here?”  
“We can’t go back there!” Jehan cries. Courfeyrac is taken aback.   
“We need to, everyone must be so worried,” he takes one of Jehan’s soft hands gently, but Jehan removes them roughly. “He’ll kill us!” he cries, “he’ll find us, he has eyes everywhere!”  
Courfeyrac is confused, “what are you talking about?” he whispers, although no one is around to hear it.   
“He will find us there—!”  
“Jehan, don’t say that.”  
“—with those eyes the burn! His eyes will find me there.”

Courfeyrac gathers Jehan into a tight embrace, “Don’t even think it—”  
“And if he has to kill a thousand men…” Jehan sobs into Courfeyrac’s coat.   
“Forget this waking nightmare.” Courfeyrac says, rubbing Jehan’s back up and down.   
“The Angel of Music – no – the Opera Ghost! He will kill—”  
“The Ghost is merely fiction…”  
“—and kill again!”  
“There is no ghost…”  
Jehan releases himself from the embrace and directs his gaze to the view of Paris beyond the both of them.  
“Who is he under than mask?” Jehan thinks aloud at the same time Courfeyrac mumbles to himself, “who is this Opera Ghost?”  
“I can’t escape from him—”  
“Whose voice is this that you hear?” Courfeyrac cuts in.  
“—and I never will!” Jehan cries.  
Courfeyrac tugs on Jehan’s wrist to pull him closer, “there is no Opera Ghost,” he brings a hand up to Jehan’s hair.  
Jehan shakes his head fervently, “no, I’ve been there.”  
Courfeyrac looks at him, confused, but his silence allows him to go on.

“I’ve been there, Gaillard,” he insists, “to his world of unending night, where the daylight dissolves into darkness…” he voice fading slowly away.  
“I’ve seen him, Gaillard! Can I ever forget that sight… escape that face? So distorted, so deformed… it didn’t even seem like a face, but his voice Gaillard! You should have heard it!”  
Courfeyrac’s eyes widen, but the rest of his face gives away the notion that he wants to hear more. He approaches Jehan tentatively, and the other boy turns swiftly, “his voice filled my spirit, I’ve never felt at ease before, it felt like I was flying, it was magnificent! Yet his eyes were filled with all the sadness of the world. Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore.”

Courfeyrac cradles Jehan’s head to his chest, an arm around his waist, “what you heard was a dream, nothing more.”  
“No, it wasn’t,” Jehan argues, albeit softly, but he turns around and puts his arm around Courfeyrac’s neck, and begins to sob again.


	8. All I Ask of You

Courfeyrac breaks their tight hold on each other and smiles at the hiccupping Jehan, “no more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears, I’m here, nothing will harm you. My words will calm and warm you.”  
Jehan sobs again and pulls Courfeyrac in, and Courfeyrac puts a protective hand over Jehan’s head, “let me be your freedom, let daylight dry your tears. I’m here with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you.”

Against his chest Jehan smiles through his tears. He’s never heard anyone say that to him before. Maybe Combeferre did with Eponine (he was there when Combeferre tried to court her), but nobody did make him feel like this. He feels assured and protected for once after his parents’ death with Courfeyrac’s words.   
“Say you’ll love me every waking moment,” he weakly requests through his sobs, “turn my head with talk of summertime, say you and me now and always; promise me that all you say is true, that’s all I ask of you.”

Courfeyrac breaks away and looks into his eyes seriously, brown on grey, “let me be your shelter, let me be your light, you will be safe, no one will find you, your fears are far behind you.”

“All I want is freedom, a world with no more night,” Jehan replies , and after much reluctance, he says, “and you always beside me, to hold me and to hide me.”   
‘He’s already promised to keep me safe,’ Jehan thinks, and he knows how much Jehan has been through, and he knows what he needs – and now, he needs security, to hide away from the Opera’s ghost, who has it out for him.

“Then say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime, let me lead you from your solitude,” and Jehan nods fiercely, “say you’ll need me with you here, beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too.” Both of them hold each other’s hands, Jehan trusting the assurance Courfeyrac promises to give him, believing the promise that he and Courfeyrac and he will be together always.

“Say you love me,” Jehan urgently whispers.   
“You know I do.” Courfeyrac answers.  
Jehan’s face lights up, and he jumps onto Courfeyrac and kisses him, surprising Courfeyrac.

After a good while of a kiss of fervour and bliss, the two of them finally break apart, Jehan beaming at Courfeyrac and it looks like he’s glowing. Courfeyrac is teary and returns a misty smile.

What a feeling it is, to be in love.

Jehan offers his hand out, and Courfeyrac takes it, and with a smile, the two of them walk away.

Behind them, on the other side of the roof of the Notre-Dame, the masked figure of the Opera Ghost stands, hands curled lightly as he watches Jehan and Courfeyrac leaves, smiling happily. He’s trying to stop his hands from clenching and from revealing himself to them.

“I gave you my music, made your song take flight…” he whispers angrily to himself, although he wants to go up to her and shake him. “And this is how you repay me? By denying me, by betraying me?” he spits out, “he was bound to love you the moment he heard you sing.”   
He cries, tears falling from his masked face, a wave of varied emotions overwhelming him.  
“You will curse the day you did not do all that the Ghost asked you to!” he sobs out, and with a swish of his cape, he is gone, enveloped by the darkness.


	9. Masquerade Ball

It’s been over a year since Jehan’s ordeal with the Opera Ghost that left her traumatised and always on the verge of tears whenever the man is mentioned. But long later, these reactions, along with the Ghost’s angry memory and his name is left with silence and nervous laughter, until none of these were solicited anymore.

The Opera’s production of Hannibal has closed after a good year of its run, and the company decided to end it off with a grand masquerade ball, all of the performers, stagehands and their friends invited to celebrate its end. With the opera selling out almost every night and meeting spectacular applause and critical acclaim, especially Jehan, whose talent is getting recognised, they deserve it all.

The party was organised by Azelma and Grantaire, which called for shimmering glitter, colourful ballgowns and soft cravats. Grand music was being played by an orchestra, who although with the music they’re playing, look half-asleep.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras calls out joyfully, and Grantaire returns the mirth, “Enjolras!”   
“What a splendid party!” Enjolras compliments, waving a small glass of what seemed to be rum around. “Quite a night, I’m impressed!” He claps a hand onto Grantaire’s right shoulder. Grantaire grins sheepishly, “For a party like this, one does his best!” The two laugh, and walk together full-circle of the ballroom, greeting all their guests, and Grantaire telling Enjolras once they reached the ballet dancers that he had some help form Azelma, and they thank her for her help.

They call for a toast, which everyone responds jubilantly to, and when Enjolras and Grantaire returned to the crowds, Grantaire whispers to Enjolras, “I must say, this is great but isn’t it a shame that that Ghost fool isn’t here…” and Enjolras chuckles and puts a hand around Grantaire’s back.

On their way through the crowd, Eponine, clad in a dark violet ball gown, stops to exclaim about what a night tonight is, and Enjolras tells her that he and Grantaire are glad everyone is enjoying themselves tonight and that they deserve it after working hard for a year. Cosette, in her shimmering silver dress, interrupts their conversation by bounding up on Eponine and grabbing her wrist and dragging the brunette away, but not before crying behind her jubilantly to the two men, “all our fears are past!”

Grantaire’s face is a face of agreement, “it has been a year…”  
“Of relief!” Monsieur Thenardier interrupts and clinks his glass of scotch with Grantaire’s absinthe. “Of delight!” Madame Thenardier, who is clinging to her husband’s arm, adds. “We can breathe at last,” Grantaire smiles contentedly, clinking his glass with Madame Thenardier’s. “May the splendour never fade,” Madame Thenardier responds as Enjolras takes his turn having a toast with the Thenardiers, saying in a low tone, “what a blessed release.”  
“What a masquerade!” Eponine shrieks from nowhere, and Enjolras laughs.

Jehan and Courfeyrac are sat by a table, whispering to each other in the brightly-lit room.

“Why do we have to keep it secret? You promised me you’d tell everyone tonight.” Courfeyrac inquires, taking Jehan’s hand up to look at the glimmering opal ring that he proposed to him with. Jehan reclaims his hand, “no, please don’t, Gaillard, they’ll see,” he pleads, eyes rather desperate.   
“Let them see,” Courfeyrac tries to persuade him, “it’s an engagement, not a crime! Why are you afraid?”   
“Jehan exhales, exasperated, “let’s not argue,” he says, “please just do this for me, you’ll understand in time.”

Suddenly a man in a bright red and black costume with gold frills appears out of thin air, out of a small explosion, rather, scaring the guests and making som shriek in fright. The man also wore a skull mask covering the entirety of his face.

Everyone turns to look at him and he laughs maniacally.  
“Why so silent, dear guests?” he asks, traces of his laughter still in his tone. He was grandly amused. “Did you think that I left you for good?”  
Jehan, on the other hand, was not. He recognised that voice: that was the Ghost’s. With eyes wide, he bolts from his seat and hides behind the crowd, confusing and astonishing Courfeyrac.

He reveals a thick pile of papers, “have you missed me, good monsieurs?” he asked with the same amused tone.   
“I have written you another opera. Here, I bring the finished score. It’s called El Muto!” he says, holding the pile of papers out.

He scans the room like he’s looking for someone to take the papers from his hands, and it’s Gavroche who steps up and takes them tentatively, and Grantaire almost yells at the boy when the Red Man resumes speaking.   
“A few instructions just before rehearsals begin,” he starts to walk around the circle that the crowd has laid out for him. “Madame Thenardier must be taught how to act and not to use her usual ploy of strutting around the stage, and Monsieur Thenardier must lose a bit of weight, it’s not healthy for a man of his age to be that big.”

“And the managers must also learn that their place is in an office, not the arts,” he continues, “and for Monsieur Prouvaire…” he trails off. The whispers lessen to a pin-drop silence.  
“No doubt he’ll do his best – it’s true, his voice is good; he knows though, that should he wish to excel, he has so much to learn. If his pride would allow it, let his return to me, his teacher. Your chains are still mine, you belong to me!” he ends with a strangled shout, and with that, he swishes his cape over him and he disappears. 


	10. Notes

He’s disappeared again.  
“He’s not in his dressing room, sir!” Cosette runs in.  
“No!” Combeferre wails, throwing his hands up.  
“What?” Feuilly bolts from his chair in front of the orchestra. Enjolras buries his face in his hands. Grantaire asks, “so does that mean we cancel tonight’s show?”

It’s been a few days since the masquerade ball, a few days since the Ghost’s threat towards Jehan, and now they are beginning the rehearsals for El Muto.

Everyone looks at Grantaire, revolted expressions on their faces. Courfeyrac hits Grantaire up on the back of his head.

A loud thud of a cane is heard off-stage, and everyone on stage turns to the source of it, and Madame Thenardier and her stern face appear from the shadows.  
“Jehan just left.”  
“What?” An Enjolras charges at her, but Grantaire tugs on Enjolras’ wrist to prevent him from touching the woman.  
“I convinced him to leave.”  
“Why would you do that?”  
“The boy was clearly tired, Monsieur, you can’t force him to perform again when he’s clearly drained.”

“Clearly drained, Madame?” Courfeyrac interrupts.  
“Why, yes, Monsieur de Courfeyrac,” she responds with a lofty shrug, “Certainly you’ve heard what happened the other night.”  
“What are you talking about?”  
Madame Thenardier scoffs, “well, the Opera Ghost of course, he abducted your new star last night and he returned only this morning, pale and probably sickly.” She smirks.

“What do we do now?” Grantaire asked again.   
“Well, I know someone who could replace her – very well, I might add,” Madame Thenardier answers coyly.  
“Will you do it, Madame?” Enjolras, ever the hopeful, inquires.

Madame Thenardier scoffs again, “can I? I can,” she turns again, “but will I? I don’t think so.”  
“Please, Madame!” Enjolras pleads, “y-you are a splendid singer! We need you!”  
“Oh, do you now?”  
“Yes, Madame!”  
Combeferre rolls his eyes, and one of the ballet dancers whisper, “any more of this ploy and Monsieur Enjolras would be smothering her on the floor.”  
The other dancers ‘shush’ him, but not without chuckling about it.  
“Please, Madame!” Enjolras begs again, and Madame Thenardier opens her mouth to respond, but Eponine rushes in as fast as she could in her ballet shoes, bearing a piece of parchment in her hand, “no!”  
Madame Thenardier turns to look at her angrily.   
“A not, Monsieur, from the Opera Ghost!” she declares, and hands the piece of parchment to Enjolras.  
Enjolras turns to receive it, but Grantaire is quicker and grabs the parchment and opens it folds hastily.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen of the Opera,” he reads, “Firstly I would like to apologize for the sudden sick leave that Monsieur Prouvaire had to take, he was such a great talent.”  
Enjolras grabs the piece of paper from Grantaire, “I would also like to remind you that my monthly salary is due. Failure to pay it will result in serious consequences.”  
Grantaire grabs it back again, “Madame Thenardier, if you attempt to take the place of Monsieur Prouvaire tonight, expect a great misfortune to happen to you and your family, especially to your children whose great talents are of use in my Opera.”

Madame Thenardier gasps, looking revolted, and snatches the parchment from Grantaire, “far too many ultimatums, and most of them for the benefit of that boy loon! Ever since he came it’s always been about him—!”  
“Bahorel has returned, Monsieur Prouvaire is home!” Azelma cries out from backstage.  
“Where is he?” Enjolras inquires, meeting her halfway.   
Eponine strides in front of Azelma, holding her arm out protectively in front of her sister. “Why would you want to know?”  
“Leave him alone!” Azelma cries from behind and Gavroche, from atop the mechanical elephant, responds, “he needs his rest!”  
Enjolras glares at the boy.  
Courfeyrac walks up to Eponine, “may I see him?”  
“No, he’ll see no one.” Madame Thenardier interrupts from behind.

From the ceiling Bahorel hands and calls out, “I have a note!” and he drops it to the floor, and Enjolras makes an undignified grab for it. He opens it and does a quick skim of its contents, and begins to read it aloud.

“Here is my final note, Monsieurs and members of my opera. I would like to remind you of my request for casting: I would like Jehan Prouvaire to be the lead player with the role of the Countess, and Madame Thenardier, if she wants to participate, is to be cast for the silent role of the pageboy, since, although she is a great talent, who would want to listen and watch someone whose talent was already five or six seasons past its prime?”

The entire opera turns to look at Madame Thenardier, who has already angrily stomped off-stage.  
Enjolras shoves the paper to Grantaire’s chest and chases after her, “Madame!”   
Grantaire goes on to continue reading the note with fear in his voice, “I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five which will be kept empty for me. Should my commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. Your obedient servant, O-G.”

“It’s all a plot to help Jehan!” Madame Thenardier cries as Grantaire adds, “this is insane!”  
“I know who is doing this! Her lover! You!” She points at Courfeyrac. His eyes widen in shock, and he puts his hands in front of his body, “Not me, Madame! I can’t even believe this is happening!”  
“Madame!” Enjolras pleads.  
“You traitor, Courfeyrac!” she accuses him.  
“This has to be a joke of sorts!” Grantaire pleads to the opera at large. Cosette looks at him with sorry eyes.   
“This changes nothing, Madame! You are our star, pay no mind to what that Ghost is saying! We own the Opera, we don’t take orders!” Enjolras throws his arms up.  
“Madame, Prouvaire will be playing the pageboy!” Grantaire grabs Madame Thenardier’s hands and clasped them together with his. “You will play the lead!”  
Madame Thenardier reclaims her hands angrily, “it’s useless trying to appease me! You have reviled me! Rebuked me! Replaced me!” she shouts back.  
“No, Madame! We need you!” the two owners say.  
Eponine strides to them hurriedly, “who scorn his word, beware those!”  
“Are you possessed?” Grantaire whispered harshly.  
Cosette strides to Eponine’s side gracefully, “the angel sees, the angel knows,” she adds, as Azelma approaches the two girls and says, “This hour shall see your darkest fears.”

Going unnoticed, Courfeyrac approaches Bahorel, “I must see Jehan, where is he?”  
Bahorel stares at him, “he’s at home.”  
“Where does he live?”  
“Why don’t I just bring you there, I don’t want to be here when that witch is here anyway.” Bahorel dusts his hands off and gets up leads Courfeyrac out discretely.


	11. The Point of No Return

From the incident with the notes time takes them to one week later, the company beginning their rehearsals for El Muto only with a few corrections: Jehan playing the silent pageboy, Madame Thenardier playing the Countess.

Music is once again filling the opera house, although its sounds tired. They have been at this for hours now. Monsieur Combeferre is half-asleep while conducting when a loud ‘bang’ is heard and the chandelier is tilted slightly downwards, jingling, and Bahorel is hanging again.

“He’s here!” Cosette cries, but Courfeyrac dismisses her. “Yes, yes, we know it,” and a guard is following behind him, carrying a long-range gold and brown pistol. “Carry on with your rehearsals.” He says to everyone, and he turns to the guard, whispering about a man in Box Five, asking him to shoot once he sees the man.

“That box?” the man asks and pulls the trigger, almost hitting the hanging Bahorel.  
“Fool!” Courfeyrac shouts at him, and Feuilly abruptly stops playing and bolts up and runs to Bahorel, crying at him all the way. Bahorel only laughs smugly.

Eponine, Cosette and Azelma walk down the stage, “I don’t think that is a very good idea, Monsieur,” Eponine says. Cosette is staring at the gun in the man’s hand. The man, feeling the gaze, chuckles awkwardly and fumbles with the gun before returning it into his belt and he removes his hat.

“You don’t think? Eponine, someone could die!” Jehan cries from on-stage. (Cosette and the guard are now staring into each other’s eyes. Azelma wants to laugh.)  
“That is the point, Jehan!” Courfeyrac insists, and Jehan stomps off angrily and someone makes a joke about Madame Thenardier being not the only diva in the Opera.

Jehan arrives at the cemetery; it’s been a while since he has come in to visit his parents’ adjoined gravestones.  
The first thing he does when he sees it is run to it, and he drops himself onto the ground of wilted flowers and begins sobbing.

Hiccupping, he recalls the past year aloud to his to his parents. He’s feeling somewhat stupid, talking to two gravestones, but a part of him tells him they were listening.

“I don’t know what to do, Maman, Père; I really love Gaillard, and it’s not the same feeling when we were nine, I really do love him. He makes me feel safe and loved. But I can’t just turn against the man who helped me refine my music,” he sobs again, this time bitterly.

“Wandering child,” someone calls lowly, “so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…”  
Jehan looks up, cheeks tear-stained and eyes red, and sees no one, so he calls out in response to that albeit familiar voice, “Angel, or my Père? Is that Bahorel, sent to look for me, or is it the Ghost?” No one responds. “Who is it there?”

The Ghost appears from the shadows, smug smirk on his lips, “have you forgotten your Angel of Music?” his eyes dark.

Jehan gasps the cold air in, “Angel…”

“Too long you’ve wandered away from me, longing for my fathering gaze…” The Angel seems to have magically conjuered a red rose out of thin air.   
Jehan gets up and brushes himself off, and when the Angel (Ghost?) steps forward he steps back in defense.

“Jehan!” someone cries from behind the two of them. Jehan gasps upon hearing the other voice and turns around.

“Don’t resist! Your soul obeys me!” The Ghost yells, and Jehan is distraught, eyes wide.   
“Jehan, no!” Courfeyrac shouts before Jehan can respond.   
“I am your Angel of Music,” the Ghost declares in his rich tones.   
“Dark seducer!” Courfeyrac accuses. The Ghost pretends to look offended. “I am your Angel of Music, come to me, Angel of Music…” the Ghost offers his hands out, and Jehan sucks in a breath, conflict plaguing every part of his being. “Come to me, Angel of Music,” the Ghost sings again as Courfeyrac gets louder and louder behind Jehan. “Angel of Darkness, cease this torment!” he pulls Jehan back, “Jehan, listen to me! This isn’t your Angel of Music! For God’s sake!” he looks to the Ghost, “For God’s sake, let her go! Jehan!” he shakes Jehan out of whatever trance he might have.

Jehan exhales a breath he doesn’t remember holding, “Gaillard!” and he falls into Courfeyrac’s arms, about to sob again.   
The Ghost’s smirk seems to grow at this, “let’s see, Monsieur, how far you dare go!”   
Courfeyrac looks angry, “more tricks, Monsieur? More deception? More violence?”   
“That’s right, Monsieur!” The Ghost beams, and Courfeyrac’s blood boils.  
“You can’t with his love by making him your prisoner!” he shouts back, hold around Jehan getting tighter.  
The Ghost laughs, “I’m here, Monsieur, the Angel of Death!” He walks backwards, making Courfeyrac come forward at him.  
“Gaillard!” comes Jehan’s strangled cry, as the Ghost disappears in a small explosion of sparks and smoke.  
“Ghost!” Courfeyrac calls aloud, and there was no response. He was gone, for now.


	12. Down Once More

The opening night for El Muto comes sooner than anyone could fathom, with rehearsals for it blurring their track of the number of days until their first performance, and also because Jehan is in a trance with what happened in the cemetery a while ago. (When was it again, yesterday? A week ago? A month? He knew it couldn’t have been a year, El Muto had made it clear that it hadn’t been a year.)

Everything passes Jehan’s attention, but his performance still on par like usual (this was partly because Eponine threatened him jokingly that Cosette has been receiving training and will replace him, and if He sees Cosette on stage, he will set the place on fire. Jehan doesn’t know whether to laugh or feel terrified.)    
Until the third scene of the third act, when he returns to his consciousness, something is wrong. He can feel it, but what? He can’t exactly run off-stage to inquire about everyone right now, the audience is watching him and Monsieur Thenardier performing.

His mind is grinding gears like clockwork while performing. He almost misses his cue with all the thinking, his brain accidentally blocking out the music and his body moving by memory. He moves to his next position, the character of the Countess behaving shy and coy while attempting to seduce the hooded man when he catches the whiff of red roses when the hooded man’s arm crosses over him.

That can’t be right, he thinks, because he’s been on stage since the first act and Monsieur Thenardier smelled lightly like wood shavings, not of red roses.  
He lets it go, but now the longer he was on-stage, the longer he smelled the red roses, and this made him think harder. And his voice! It isn’t Monsieur Thenardier’s strong belting voice; it was creamy, stable but not the same belting on of Monsieur Thenardier. It’s a familiar voice… It can’t be, can it?

No it’s not, a part of his brain says, he’s in Box Five like he is on every performance night, but the man singing in his ear doesn’t have the same volume as Monsieur Thenardier’s.  
He devises a plan.  
He can apologise for it later when the man reveals to be Monsieur Thenardier.

It’s the hooded man’s turn to sing now, and Jehan bides his time flirting with him, which is what he was scripted to do.  
He casually walks around the hooded figure, movements calculated with estimated precision, and tugs down the hood of the man, so lightly the man didn’t feel anything until the light is revealed before his eyes.

This isn’t Monsieur Thenardier, everyone in the theatre realises, it is a man with half a mask on his face.

Jehan almost gasps aloud, but he doesn’t and instead his face contorts into one of anger and pulls it the mask from his face and throws it to the other side of the stage.

The audience is shocked, to say the least: everyone is screaming, Jehan can hear a child crying, the entire opera is in hysterics, but he can’t see it – the Ghost angrily pulls up the hood to cover his face and drags Jehan across the stage, picks up his mask and enters the backstage, stopping in their way to shove Bahorel away to reach the ropes and draw the curtains down.

The Ghost pushes everyone away after that and he brings Jehan back to his underground mansion, hurriedly rowing through the misty lake, and Jehan even has half the mind to jump and swim back to the opera.

* * *

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac screams from Box Four when the Ghost takes him from the stage. The entire theatre is in chaos, Grantaire’s sister froze in place, eyes wide, shocked, Grantaire and Enjolras trying to calm her out of her fright.

Courfeyrac tries to run to the stage, but the crowd below is blocking every way he could imagine to reach Jehan with. No one listens to his pleas of parting for him to pass through.

It isn’t in him, but he’s getting desperate so he shoves anyone who gets in his way, but by the time he reaches the stage, he was already too late. Jehan is nowhere to be found. He almost bursts into tears until Eponine grabs him by the wrist and runs to the dressing rooms, “I know where they are headed!”

Azelma sots the two of them just as Eponine opens to the ballet dancers’ joint dressing room.

“Let me come with you!” Azelma begs, but Eponine takes her by the shoulders and says, “het the others, get Feuilly and Combeferre to play the ballet sequence in Act Three, get Cosette to understudy as the Countess. Get Bahorel to open the curtains and perform. If you need anyone to play any other characters, just get the other ballet dancers too. You are the lead dancer now, Zel.”  
Azelma’s eyes are wide, and she’s shaking, but she nods and runs as swiftly as she can.  
“Now, you,” Eponine turns to Courfeyrac, “you listen to whatever I say, is that understood?”  
Courfeyrac nods, face determined.  
They enter the dressing room, and Eponine opens a square hole on the floor and climbs the ladder down.

“I suppose you would want an explanation for this,” Eponine says, walking down a dark tunnrl with water dripping through the ceiling.

“First, this is the second of the two openings that the Ghost set out for me, Azelma and Gavroche. It leads to the Ghost’s home that he built, along with a lake. Another one is in Jehan’s dressing room. I don’t know how the other one goes though.

“This ghost, his name is Montparnasse. He is a very talented musician, a childhood friend of ours. We used to live side by side in Lyon until our town was enveloped in a fire. He went back to save Azelma and ended up burning half his face. People called him a freak. Father brought us to Paris becausr she knew someone who could help so we have to leave him. Cosette’s mother and step-father came to our aid and gave us a place to stay, then we went to an opera with Cosette’s family. Gavroche found an opening under the Opera…” and she goes on to tell him about Montparnasse: the siblings helped him create an identity, helped him terrify the opera’s workers, and making the haunting of the opera as its elusive resident Ghost one with profit – a great one. Soon enough he had garnered enough money, and with Bahorel the caretaker’s help and Gavroche, he lived luxuriously underneath the Opera he’s haunted.

She tells him of how he found Jehan, which really was the same way Courfeyrac did, and he began teaching him how to sing so much to the point that Madame Thenardier was jealous. And no, Monsieur Courfeyrac, Maman and Père did not know Montparnasse is here, the same way they do not know that she and Combeferre are talking about getting engaged. (Courfeyrac smiles at this and Eponine smiles with a blush in the dark.)

They arrive at a door leading inside to the mansion when Eponine stops. Courfeyrac gives her a questioning look. “I cannot go in there Monsieur; this is the farthest I have been. This is all I can help you with,” Eponine says, shaking her head. “Also, I think this is a fight between you and the Ghost. This has nothing to do with him.”  
Courfeyrac presses his lips in a thin line and Eponine turns around, whispering a ‘good luck’ before going through the tunnel again. Courfeyrac breathes deeply, and opens the door, where he sees a staircase down and hears screaming. Then something falls overhead and before he knows it, he was trapped in a metal cage.

Montparnasse laughs from downstairs and comes upstairs, Jehan in tow, wearing a different costume than earlier on-stage, this time, a formal suit one that people wear to wedding, and a small crown with a veil attached to it. The veil drapes over his face that is contorted in struggle, his cheeks tear-stained.

“Oh, look, Jehan, we have a guest!” he jokes, tone sarcastic.   
“Gaillard!” Jehan shrieks and tries to run to the cage, but Montparnasse grips him down with a smirk.  
“Oh, what a delight! I had foreseen your intent to attend! And now you have made my wish came true!” he exclaims albeit mirthlessly. He takes Jehan in his arms, “you have truly made my night!”  
Jehan struggles against him and cries, “let me go!”

Courfeyrac’s eyes are watering, “free him, please! Do whatever you want with me, but please free him!”  
Montparnasse scoffs and turns to Jehan, “your lover makes a passionate plea.” But Jehan pays no attention to Montparnasse and looks at Courfeyrac, “Please, Gaillard. No, it’s useless,” he begs.   
“I love him!” Courfeyrac shouts, “I love him! Does that mean nothing at all? I love him, please show some compassion!”  
“The world showed no compassion to me!” Montparnasse shouts back.  
“Don’t hurt him,” Courfeyrac mumbles weakly, emotions drained.   
Montparnasse grins again, “why would I harm him? Why would I make him pay for the sins which are yours?” he laughs and pulls out Jehan’s right hand, where Courfeyrac’s engagement ring snugly fit on Jehan’s ring finger, and Montaprnasse pulls it out and tosses it to the side, and replaces it with another ring, forcefully shoving the ring into his finger.

He laughs maniacally, “Order your fine horses! Nothing can save you now, expect, maybe, Jehan…”  
He tugs Jehan by the wrists, “start a new life with me!” he invites earnestly, “buy his freedom with your love! Refuse me and you send your love to his death! Make your choice, because it’s past the point of no return!”

Jehan’s eyes grew dark, “the tears I’ve shed for your dark fate turn cold and turn to tears of hate!” and with a loud cry, Jehan releases himself from the Ghost’s tight cold hands.   
He rushes to the cage and takes Courfeyrac’s shivering, cold hands and turns to the Ghost, “goodbye, my fallen idol and false friend – we had such hopes, but now they are shattered.”  
Courfeyrac gasps, alarmed, “Jehan, no, please don’t!” he begs, “Say you love me and I die!”  
“Isn’t he a selfish one?” Montparnasse smiles wickedly.  
“So are you!” Jehan shouts back. “You want me for my voice, for my talent! And you want to trap me here and force me to love you, but I cannot!”  
Montparnasse is taken aback, but does not stutter in his response, “No point in fighting, for either way you choose, nobody wins.”  
“Either way you choose,” Courfeyrac breathes, “he has to win.”

“Choose!” booms Montparnasse, “end your days with me or send him to his grave?”  
Courfeyrac rattles his cage fiercely, “why make him lie to you to save?” he growls.  
“Angel of Music,” Jehan spits out forcibly, “who deserved this?”   
Courfeyrac rattles his cage, this time gently, “For pity’s sake, Jehan, say no! Don’t throw your life away for my sake!”  
“His life is now a price you must earn,” Montparnasse torments.  
“Why do you curse mercy?” Jehan demands angrily.  
“No, Jehan, please stop, I fought so hard to free you,” Courfeyrac whispers desperately as Montparnasse shouts, “you’ve passed the point of no return!”

Jehan inhales sharply and tries to calm his nerves anger surging through, “you deceived me, I gave you mind blindly… your haunted face holds no horror for me now, it’s in your soul that the true distortion lies!”  
Montparnasse is alarmed, but holds his ground, “you try my patience, make your choice!” he brusquely takes Jehan’s wrist and tightly holds onto it, dragging him away from Courfeyrac’s cage.

Jehan’s breath hitches, eyes watering, “pitiful creature of darkness: what kind of life have you known? God, give me the courage to show that you are not alone.”  He heaves a big breath, and kisses Montparnasse long, hard and full on the mouth like he meant it.   
Montparnasse is surprised, and tears fall from his face.

The kiss ends, leaving Montparnasse breathless and disbelieving. With hands clutching his racing head, he points to Courfeyrac, “go, take him, and forget all of this. Leave me alone, forget all you’ve seen.”  
Jehan obediently goes to release Courfeyrac from the cage, shaking slightly. The cage is lifted up, and Courfeyrac rushes to hug Jehan, who starts crying. Courfeyrac turns around to open the door but Montparnasse stops them.  
“No, don’t go by the tunnel. Take the boat, and promise me to tell no one of this, of this foolish angel in hell!”  
Courfeyrac and Jehan are stunned. “Go now and leave me!” Montparnasse shouts, and the two flee down the staircase, Jehan leading, out the door, onto the boat and Courfeyrac picks up the oar and with what little he knew, he rowed the boat away from the moat, from Montparnasse and his mansion, from the frightening past that haunted them for over a year and back to the opera, back to the world that the two of them planned together – a marriage, a family, the happily-ever-after that Courfeyrac had promised. Jehan is shaken, but he knows, with Courfeyrac, he is safe now.

The second the two leave, Azelma bursts in through the upstairs door, expecting to find Montparnasse somewhere in the mansion, but instead all she finds is the mask he always dons on the organ bench, with his cape. On the mask, the words ‘a better place’ are written in fresh red blood. Azelma drops the mask in fright, standing a distance away. And then her tears begin to fall and she puts her arms around her torso.

Goodbye, Opera Ghost.


End file.
